


(i cut 'em) with my fatal charm

by orangesparks



Series: desperate to survive [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Sexual Harassment, abusive/toxic friendships & relationships, as well as other lovely things resplendent in both the book and movie, violence between underage characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 02:39:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12831570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangesparks/pseuds/orangesparks
Summary: He was annoyed at what a total fucking waste the night was until the theater door swung open and the last patron exited.





	(i cut 'em) with my fatal charm

**Author's Note:**

> Although meant as a companion piece to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11957691), they don't necessarily need to be read in a specific order.
> 
> ETA: If you're interested in listening to any of the music/artists mentioned in this series, there is a [companion mixtape here](https://kaseta.co/play/l9vZ7hC).

_You know I get so nervous_  
 _When I see his eyes that shine_  
 _He gets too close_  
 _And a chill runs down my spine_  
  
  
\- Motorhead & Girlschool

  
  
  
  
_Just wait, honey, 'til I tell the boys about you..._  
  
  
\- Motley Crue

   
  


  
-

  
_August 1988_

  
The movie fucking blew.

At least the Jason movies could always guarantee a decapitation or some titties (or usually - happily - _both_ ). But the Freddy ones? They'd been only been getting dumber as the series went on.

This one took the fuckin' cake - a girl having a killer asthma attack (Henry briefly imagined the same thing happening to little Baby Kaspbrak and it was responsible for his only laugh of the night), a guy getting killed by invisible karate kicks, a girl turning into a fucking cockroach.

Total horse shit.

(If he and Belch had actually _paid_ , he'd march over to Old Man Foxworth behind the ticket counter and demand their money back. Truth be told, he sort of wanted to, anyway. Wanted to see how the old man would react.)

When it was over, they leaned against the arcade games littering the lobby, glaring at whichever dumb little shits had the nerve to longingly cast looks over at the controllers as they streamed out the theater. As if they imagined being brave enough to shove him and Belch away, take what they wanted.

The cheap gin they'd swiped from Mrs. Huggins' liquor cabinet was already watered down by the flat Pepsi in their wax concession cups. Still, they downed what was left.

Better than nothing.

He was annoyed at what a total fucking waste the night was until the theater door swung open and the last patron exited.

Face bare except for a smear of berry lip balm and the faint bruise on her cheek, beaming ear to ear ( _did they watch a different fucking movie?_ ), Beverly Marsh strolled out - hair loose around her shoulders and as far from planet Earth as one could get.

That radiant smile dropped the instant she caught sight of him and Belch. And maybe he'd have been more offended if his mind weren't already churning with a plan.

Once she'd walked past, Belch's elbow caught his side, wide grin stretching his mouth. Henry glared.

_Five steps ahead of you._

  
-

  
She got into the car with almost no cajoling.

He'd been surprised, sure, but still quick enough to school his face into an apathetic mask when he swung open the door for her, cool as anything.

(He'd thought she'd put up more of a fight; that maybe they'd even have to follow her a block or two before they wore her down, if they ever did at all.)

It was a quiet ride (quiet being relative - Belch's stereo was no fucking joke and he was going to wear that Megadeth tape down before the end of the week), but he'd gotten adept at people-watching via the passenger's side mirror - partly to keep an eye on what was going on while never having to sacrifice shotgun, partly because he didn't fucking trust Hockstetter.

She didn't look _scared_ , no. But she didn't exactly look thrilled, either.

She looked... confused.

 _Makes two of us, dollface_ , he thought, wondering why she'd nearly leapt into the car in the first place.

_(it couldn't have been because... because she--)_

_No_ , he thought, shoving that gleeful thought down before it could split his thin-lipped mouth into a smug grin, not about to play his hand this early in the game.  
  
Not yet.

They finally arrived in the part of town his father called "the shitsticks" - past Lower Main Street, where Derry's poorest lived. Sleepy a town as it was, plenty of drug busts still occurred nearby.

("Nothing but trash. Shame it survived the Valentine's Flood back in '79. Would've made our jobs helluva lot easier," he'd overheard his father telling Aloysius Nell one afternoon, when the other officer had stopped over for a beer and a chat, and though Nell hadn't argued, a strained sort of look twisted his face when Butch finally looked away.)

The instant Belch pulled over, she ran to her apartment like Satan himself was nipping at her ass. But the fury that overtook him when he thought she was trying to _ditch_ him was doused with ice water when he saw the way her eyes darted up and down the street, alerted by every flash of passing headlights.

Watchful. Terrified.

Within moments, she slipped into her apartment, a frightened ghost.

  
-

  
"I like your bracelets," Patrick said.

(Under the deafening roar of Slayer, he could have been saying anything. But that's sure as fuck what it _sounded_ like.)

Vic was in after-school detention, caught terrorizing the new kid outside the multi-purpose room by one of the custodians (and they'd give Tits an extra walloping this week to return the favor, don't anyone worry), so it was just Patrick and Beverly in the backseat that afternoon.

Henry watched them through the side-view, saw the fishbelly white arm reach across the seat and touch her wrist. Would have twisted around in his seat and glowered if she hadn't already yanked her arm away at warp speed.

"Thanks."

"Where'd you get 'em?"

"I made them."

"No shit?"

"You girls having fun back there?" Belch called over his shoulder. "Gonna start braiding each other's hair?"

He cackled riotously at his own wit. Henry joined in, loud and harsh, trying to ignore the unpleasant feeling roiling in his gut.

Patrick ignored them; didn't even seem offended by the speed or force with which Beverly had yanked her hand away the instant he touched her.

"Would you make me some? These are _tits_."

(Henry's head swiveled back around faster than Superman shooting his jizzum into Lois Lane to confirm that they were still, in fact, talking about fucking _bracelets_.)

"Sure. Just gimme a couple bucks for the leather and let me know what color you want."

"These are real leather?"

Patrick's hand snaked around her wrist again, stroking more flesh than anything else. She pulled her hand away again - this time, she tore off a bracelet, holding it out. He snatched it greedily (like an ugly, gaping trout might chomp a worm off a waiting hook), before holding it out in front of him in cupped palms, oh so gentle.

"Bitchin'."

"Did you want black or brown?"

"Black."

Henry couldn't even laugh at further confirmation that Hockstetter was, in fact, the weirdest creepazoid he'd ever had the misfortune to meet, because he kept inching closer to her.

For one white-hot instant, they made eye contact in the side-view - and not only that, but Hockstetter was _grinning_.

 _Go on, stop me,_ that look goaded.

_I dare you._

"Pull over," he muttered to Belch.

"Huh?" the other boy gaped. "I thought we were going to Dairy Queen."

"Just fuckin' _pull over_."

Belch slanted a look at him, but knew better than to argue, quickly acquiescing. Henry climbed out, slammed his seat forward.

"See you tomorrow," he said to Beverly.

If she was confused by the sudden change in plans, she didn't show it. She shrugged.

"Yeah, okay." Shouldering her bookbag, she hopped out and offered a casual wave that only Belch returned.

As they took off, Henry heard a quiet giggle from the backseat. A glance into the side-view showed him Patrick holding the bracelet. Careful, like it was something odd and fragile; not an inanimate object, but a squirming, helpless insect.

  
-

  
The next morning before class, he scared a shrimpy, braces-riddled eighth-grader into telling him where he'd last seen her - which ended up being curled up by a tree, on the South side of the building.

Expression studiedly neutral, she sat cross-legged and gazing across campus at nothing, one hand cupping the side of her cheek. At the sudden fall of his shadow, she crushed the cigarette she'd been hiding under her hand - and winced when she saw just who had startled her into doing so.

" _Shit_. I just lit that, too."

He dropped a few crumpled bills in front of her. That same eighth-grader he'd snatched it from could deal with missing out on lunch today (was lucky he only lost a couple bucks and not some of his adult teeth, while he was at it).

She stared up at him.

"I want a cuff."

"Huh?"

"I want a leather _cuff_. Not a fuckin' girly _bracelet_."

Before her mouth could finish quirking into a full-on smile (if she laughed at him, he'd end up bloodying his fist against the tree she was reclining against, and that would stop that laugh pretty fucking quick, just see if it wouldn't), he added, "Like... like Conan. Schwarzenegger. Y'know?"

He raised a fist and pointed to his wrist, as if she were deaf. Her lips parted in surprise for a moment before falling back to their usual faintly amused expression.

"Yeah. I can manage that."

  
-

  
He liked meeting her (no, not meeting-- _surprising_ her) at her locker. For Henry, this served two purposes.

One, it let her know she'd better get used to hanging around him.

Two, it let everyone else in school know the same thing.

He'd previously thought that girls were particular about keeping their things neat and orderly to an almost bugshit degree (not that he had much experience with this at home - Rena was no housekeeper, and made sure that both Henry and Butch knew it), which is why Victor nearly getting murdered by the avalanche of papers that fell out of her locker that afternoon was a surprise.

Belch immediately bent to grab her things, the hem of his faded Motorhead shirt riding up over the waistband of his jeans as he did.

Before Henry could comment on this kiss-ass behavior (maybe make a helpful comment on how the whole hallway could see his ass crack), the other boy snorted at the band posters wallpapering her locker.

" _Jeezus_. Can't tell the boys from the girls! We gotta get you into some _real_ music."

Indeed, the men (and women) in the wrinkled magazine tear-outs were all death-white and tall and thin as street lamps, dark eyeliner smudged over sneering eyes, (barely) dressed in black leather, spiked hair all either ink black or blood red.

"Funny," Beverly said, taking the pile of books and papers from his arms. "I was gonna say the same to you."

Shoving everything haphazardly into the top shelf, she slammed it closed with her fist, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. (They could expect a repeat of the avalanche tomorrow.)

" _I_ like those bands."

Much closer than he'd been a moment ago, Hockstetter stooped next to her, beaming crookedly.

 _Of fuckin' course you do,_ Henry thought sourly, _all those pale skinny freaks could be your goddamn sister._

From anyone else, perhaps, Hockstetter's comment would have been innocent enough. From him, however, it held the insinuation that this, somehow, bonded them beyond any level previously known to common man.

Beverly didn't look particularly impressed - but then, she didn't look suspicious, either.

(Sometimes she was real fucking naive. Didn't she know the asshole would claim to wear the same goddamn type of _tampons_ as her if he thought it would score him some points?)

"Yeah? Who's your favorite?"

"Killing Joke," Hockstetter said without hesitation. Instead of calling bullshit on this clearly made-up band name, however - she _nodded_.

(Almost-- almost in _approval_.)

"The fuck is that," Henry spat, "what your mirror says when you gawp into it every morning?"

Patrick's grin only stretched wider.

"Hey - can we _go_?" Victor demanded.

Before Henry could tell him they'd leave when he was fucking good and _ready_ , Beverly moved down the hall, backpack dangling from her shoulder, not noticing - or caring - if they were following.

The others turned to look at Henry.

"Well, come the fuck on," he snarled, striding forward before they could lose her in the crowd.

  
-

  
Those missing kids had become a real pain in the ass.

Butch's annoyance over being constantly harangued by the grieving, desperate parents at all hours (and easy willingness to take it out on his son) was one thing, but his sudden cameo appearances at school certainly didn't improve Henry's mood any.

"Don't think you can wriggle out of your chores tonight, boy," he'd said that morning. "No cruising with them juvenile delinquent shits, either. I'll be home at three sharp, and you'll be, too."

This left him with two options this afternoon.

One: not drive Beverly home with them. Let the other kids think she'd already gotten sick of

_(him)_

them.

(Not a fucking chance.)

Two: let her sit alone in that car with the others for the remaining ten or twenty minutes or however the fuck long it would take to drop her off in town.

Maybe the first day or so he'd have been more amenable to this second option, but over the past few weeks, he'd been noticing some patterns. Didn't like how Belch's eyes (or Patrick's hands) lingered.

However, he didn't have much choice.

(And they'd better drop her off next straight-away if they knew what was good for them. He'd find out tomorrow if they didn't; Patrick, for all his subtle prodding and manipulations, wouldn't be able to resist bragging otherwise.)

He was in the middle of working up a good sulk over the matter, twisting his childish frown into a snarl whenever anyone chanced a look at him. His only consolation was the way Beverly moved to claim shotgun the instant he left the car.

The drawback to this little game of musical chairs, however, was that it also resulted in his father getting a good look at her fiery ponytail whipping out the window right as Belch peeled off.

"That a _girl_ in there?" he bellowed, hand on hip, his expression almost one of benign amusement.

Henry bit down the "well, it's not fucking livestock" comment he so desperately wanted to fling back.

"There's a _girl_ riding around with your little gang now?" His father snorted. "She must really be desperate. Key- _hrist_."

Henry waited one breath, then another, eyes down. Butch fell silent. In the clear for the moment, he continued forth--

\--until a hand slapped heavily onto his shoulder, yanking him backward so hard the heels of his boots skittered and dragged over the gravel, nearly tripping him.

"You been _doin'_ anything with her, boy?"

"No, sir," Henry said immediately, but apparently this was the wrong thing to say, too; a sly grin slid over his father's face, slow, like heavy molasses.

"Course not. You wouldn't know what to do with a girl like that."

  
-

  
Lunch was just about the only thing that stayed the same.

He'd never seen her out in the courtyard eating before, and that didn't change after she'd started hanging with them, either. (Good thing, too. Seeing her with a pack of girls would be one thing. But the only kids he'd seen her speaking to in recent memory were that human bowl of oatmeal Ellie Geiger and the ever-wussy Stuttering Denbrough. And if he caught her with the latter, he might have to ensure that stutter remained well into adulthood.)

Victor must have noticed him scanning the campus, because he said in a low voice, "I think she hides in the bathroom. During lunch, I mean."

Instead of being thankful for this piece of information, Henry leveled him with a glare.

"And how the fuck do _you_ know? She tell you?"

" _No,_ " Vic said immediately. Patrick let out a high-pitched guffaw at the look of worry that bloomed on the other boy's face. "I- I just heard Gretta Keene talking about someone hiding in there before. And since she and her little girlfriends have made it their business to harass the shit out of her, I wouldn't be surprised, is all."

" _Oooooh_ ," said Patrick, eyes lighting up. "Hear that, Henry? She's moving in on your territory. You gonna go beat up some girls, now? The whole field hockey team?"

"That Keene is a _bruiser_ ," said Belch. "I'd watch it, Henry." He and Patrick dissolved into loud, braying laughter, though Belch stopped when Henry stared at him.

Patrick didn't.

"I mean it," he said, flicking open his lighter. Casual as you please.

The movement was enough to draw Mrs. Douglas's attention across the courtyard.

She and Henry made eye contact.

Smoking obviously wasn't allowed on campus, despite the few jittery teachers who would sneak drags not just in the teacher's lounge, but also behind the bleachers time to time, like any other nervous sophomore. Holding her clipboard close to her chest, she approached the four boys, slowing her step as she reached the tree they were splayed in front of...

...and continued to walk past, lips thinned.

"Wanna go mess up some girls? Light their gym bags on fire? All that expensive equipment..."

"Shut the fuck up," said Henry.

  
-

  
He'd whispered to the others in the hall, told them they needed to get lost early today. Let Belch know the spot to drop him and Beverly at. Saw their faces fall as he laid out his plans. Some were better at hiding it than others.

It was finally going to happen.

He soothed their egos by promising they'd hear everything tomorrow. This was enough for Belch and Patrick, if their leers told him anything. Truth be told, he wasn't crazy about the usual sour look clouding Victor's face, but the expression was as much a part of him as his platinum hair or his braces, so Henry let it slide, especially when, for the first time since the gang of them had been hanging together, Beverly met them at _his_ locker.

She fell into step beside him as they left the school, and it felt so _natural_ , so-- necessary. Like she _belonged_ there, next to him.

Stuttering Denbrough and Wheezy Kaspbrak stared as the five of them ambled out of school, welcoming as a funeral parade.

He was in such a good mood that he settled for simply sneering at them as he strode past. He was too busy admiring the way the sun hit her hair as she walked, set it on fire.

 _Keep dreaming, little shits,_ he thought, almost fondly.

He let that elation carry him throughout the entire car ride, not letting it ebb, almost on autopilot until they were alone by the quarry.

He wasted little time.

Her mouth was soft. He knew it would be. Had to be. He tasted raspberry lip balm; could smell Irish Spring soap, mint shampoo, cigarette smoke - something else, slightly spicy, that was distinctly _her_.

 _This_ was his first kiss, he decided, clawing his hand into her hair, liking the way his fingers tangled into the curls, became trapped in them.

This was the one that counted. This was normal, and real, and anyone who tried suggesting otherwise could enjoy spitting up their own molars--

It was just about the moment he noticed she wasn't kissing him back when she tried to pull her hand away.

_No._

He gripped her wrist tighter.

 _She knows,_ that voice whispered. _She can smell it on you. She can smell_ him _on you. You reek of it._

 _No_ , he thought. _Fuck you, she doesn't, she can't--_

Beverly tugged again, harder. Any minute now and she'd be full-out struggling. Too mortified to do anything else, he shut his eyes, limply released her hand.

Pushing him away was bad enough. But the look in her eyes - something touching close to _pity_ \--

If she looked at him like that a second more, he wouldn't be able to fucking stand it.

"I'm sorry."

And now, she was fucking _apologizing_.

He wanted to laugh. To laugh and laugh and laugh until he coughed up blood, changed that look of concern in her eyes to one of fear, the way she should be looking at him. The way everyone fucking should.

Instead, his knees buckled.

 _I thought you were supposed to swoon during, not after_ , he thought, a kind of strange amusement bubbling over inside him to something more frenzied.

He sat there a long while.

  
-

  
He startled awake to pounding at the front door.

It took him a moment to realize he wasn't, unfortunately, dreaming it; that it wouldn't fade if he pressed his face against his pillow and willed it away, either.

Grumpy already, he stalked to the living room, nearly ripping the screen door off its hinges when he kicked it open. Without preamble, Patrick slid past him into the living room. Vic and Belch, at least, had the good grace to fucking _wait_ until Henry moved out of the way, throwing himself onto the threadbare couch, its cheerful floral pattern long faded to something that looked more befitting a crime scene than a piece of furniture.

Henry glanced at the battered grandfather clock stashed in the corner of the room, boxed in by stacks of newspaper and empty take-out containers - ten-twenty. Butch had left for work at ten this morning, was long gone. (The fact that his father hadn't screamed at him to get off his ungrateful ass and answer the fucking door had let him know as much.)

They'd already agreed that he'd give the details when they met up at their regular time today. But usually, that wasn't well until noon at the earliest. Belch always got up at the asscrack of dawn on Saturdays for his paper route, was restless with fidgety energy, could never get back to sleep after.

The other two had no such excuse.

Patrick lowered himself onto the seat next to Henry, long limbs taking up more than half the couch. "How was it?"

" _What_ ," Henry asked, scowling.

Patrick was unfazed by his temper. He stroked the top of the sofa idly, his new collection of bracelets noose-tight around his spindly wrist. The one he'd taken from Beverly weeks ago was nestled in the center, the crown jewel.

(Henry fought the immediate, ludicrous urge to wrap his fingers around the leather cuff he'd fallen asleep wearing; curled his hand into a fist, instead.)

"Your _Girl Scout_ meeting," Patrick continued. "How did it go?"

Henry focused on a patch of peeling wallpaper across the room from him, thinking quickly. He'd stupidly not thought of a cover story last night. Had spent too much time punching boulders and tree trunks and other offending inanimate objects until he'd done enough damage to himself to make even his old man proud. His knuckles still ached.

Belch was leaning forward, eyes wide and eager. Victor was looking away, but Henry knew he was itching to hear every word, too, sanctimonious little shit.

Patrick smirked at his marked silence. "That bad?"

" _No_ ," Henry glowered, before they could dig too much more. "It was fuckin' incredible. She can really..." He mimed moving one hand languidly up and down below his belt. He was too tired - too _bitter_ \- to be more creative with his lies right now.

Apparently, it didn't matter.

Good a liar as Henry could be, he knew the petulance, the stinging rejection, hadn't entirely faded from his demeanor - could feel it lingering in his posture, every inch of him. But the others were so hard up for - well, _anything_ \- that their disappointment over him staking his rightful claim yesterday had fast melted to reluctant acceptance when he'd promised them all the morbid details - and now they were so desperate for new material not from the wrinkled pages of a skin mag or a scrambled HBO signal that minor concerns like plausibility weren't going to get in the way.

The smirk that wormed its way over Belch's freckled face proved him right.

"I'll bet she can," he said.

Patrick licked his teeth, moving closer.

"But," Henry continued, backing away, "still glad that's over with. She got too-- clingy."

Belch guffawed. " _Really?_ "

"Yeah. Thinks we're dating now, or some shit. Couldn't have that."

Victor's eyes narrowed - but, as he valued the mobility of both his legs, said nothing.

Like he was trying to work out a particularly difficult Pre-Algebra problem (he was taking the class for the second time), Belch's forehead wrinkled.

"What d'you--"

"So, it's over," interrupted Patrick softly. Henry didn't like the dangerous undercurrent of his tone. Still - he nodded.

"Yeah. Of fuckin' course."

"So," Patrick continued, softer still, "you won't mind if we go in for some leftovers, then."

Three sets of eyes were now on Henry. Waiting.

"You better not," he snarled, before he could stop himself. Patrick smiled, crooked and lazy, like a rotted Jack O'Lantern.

"I mean," Henry added, a little too casually, "if you want to - fine. But then she'll start following _you_ around, and it'd really fuck things up. Y'know?"

Belch looked confused by this particular issue being classified as a downside.

"Yeah, course we know that," said Victor quickly, staring Belch down. The other boy shrugged, sighing.

"Okay. Sure."

Patrick's eyes glittered.

  
-

  
_July 1989_

  
It was her fault.

If she hadn't been such a fucking _tease_ , he wouldn't have fallen for her tricks. Wouldn't have had to lie to the others.

But she had, and he did, and that was that.

Yet here she was, staring at him with eyes colder than they'd ever been.

(They'd blazed fire when she first learned of the rumors, knocked him back with a love tap that had Vic immediately yanking her away by the collar of her pretty little floral dress before things got bloody.)

This was something different entirely.

Who the fuck asked her to intrude? Did she even fucking _know_ Hanlon? And who the fuck asked her to cozy up to Denbrough and the rest of _those_ little shitstains, like they'd even know what to do with her?

 _(like any of them had more value, more_ worth _, than--)_

He shoved the thought away, let a smirk curl his lip instead. Was just warming up in his insults when Lardass Hanscom fired that jagged rock at his face, knocked him back down.

Those fairweather shitheads, Sadler and Jagermyer and Gordon, had hauled ass months ago. If they'd had them - had Hockstetter - maybe it would have been a fair fight.

Patrick had been missing for several weeks, now. Perhaps that should have inspired worry in Henry. But all it brought him was a wild mixture of relief - relief that the creep was no longer dangling certain _incidents_ over his head - as well as annoyance that he wasn't around to make himself useful in the rock fight that he and the others were so rapidly losing.

Belch was a formidable enemy on any baseball field, both at Derry High and the one behind Tracker Brothers, and Vic wasn't too shabby a fastpitcher, either, but this was approaching slaughter.

And of fucking course, _she_ led the charge.

(They'd shot bottles together once, last fall.

It was one of those blissful Saturday afternoons when Butch was off to the station early, and Henry could establish the sprawling farmland around the Bowers house as his own domain.

She'd ignored his angry protests when she first snatched the slingshot from his hand, the snickers from the others that died when they got a glimpse of just exactly what she could do with it. Showed him how to improve his hold, how one needed to bend his body if he wanted a smoother shot, then proceeded to cleanly pick a row of dead soldiers off the rusted tractor without breaking a sweat.

She was quick with a slingshot. Dangerous. Her expression was cool, almost dispassionate, when she aimed. Yet it didn't match the fury, the brutality, clear in every shot she took. Like she was imagining the targets were something - or someone - else.

It had frightened him (not that he'd ever fucking admit it), as well as ignited something else inside of him, warming and bright. He'd thought, maybe, that it was admiration. He'd admit to this even less willingly than he would to the fear.

His mouth had been unflatteringly slack when she handed back the slingshot, favoring him with an encouraging nod.

"Give it a try.")

She didn't need a slingshot to do any damage this time. No, sir. Eyes slitted and so very hateful, she'd flung rock after rock in their direction. Sometimes at Vic. Sometimes at Belch.

But mostly, at him.

When he went crawling home that afternoon, his anger at Vic and Belch for abandoning him shriveled next to the possibility of Butch being home early to see the blood on his face, the cuts on his arms, maybe deciding to add a few more to the collection just to teach him a lesson.

He worked quickly to scrub away the blood, dried rust spiderwebbed over his face and neck and bare arms.

The biggest cut sloped over his brow. Her first hit.

He patched it half-assedly with a wadded tissue and a strip of paper tape. The gaping cut would definitely scar.

Bruises faded. He knew that as well as anyone, maybe better than most. And sure enough, over the next few weeks, they yellowed and disappeared.

The scar lingered.


End file.
